His American Duchess

After her father lost the family fortune, and after she ended her loveless engagement to a Boston business tycoon, Jeanne Witherspoon escaped to Paris, intent on painting and socializing with only kindred spirits. When she makes the acquaintance of a British duke who shares her love for art, she is content with friendship, despite her growing attraction to the man himself.

But a tragic secret has followed August Groton-Hames to Paris, and the rumors only intensify when he commissions amateur artist Jeanne to paint his portrait. Could his intentions toward Jeanne be anything less than honorable?

Chapter Two

While Yves directed his seamstress in fitting the gown to Jeannes slender frame, he chastised her for her flippant attitude toward the duke. "Do you have any idea who this man is? His history? More to the point, his fortune?"

"Oh, Yves, one should never measure people by their fortunes or titles."

"August GrotonHames is possibly the wealthiest man in all of Europe. His art collection alone is worth a significant fortune. And its an excellent collectionnot like some."

"How do you know him?"

"I designed some gowns for his sister and the woman he was to marry. He took a personal interest and we became acquainted. Hes really quite curious about people of all classes."

"And his history?"

"A bit mysterious. He was betrothed to a distant cousin on his mothers sidethe Hapsburg connection you hear in his accent. The young woman died under circumstances that have never quite been cleara sailing accident. Gossip has it that he failed to save her when he might have. Shortly after that he came here to live. He returns to England only when business or politics require."

"Thats so very sad. Did he love her?"

"In those circles, love is rarely the most important factor, Jeanne. She was titled, beautiful and young enough to produce at least one heir. An elaborate wedding was in the offing. Everyone was vying for an invitation."

Jeanne had a sudden vision of the dukes eyessad and lonely in spite of his smile. "I think he must have loved her. He seemed very nice."

"He was certainly impressed by your talent. He looked at those sketches with the eye of a collector, of someone who might very well become a patron."

"My work is not for sale," Jeanne said flatly, craning her neck to see how the gown fit in the back.

"Perhaps it should be," Yves suggested as he reset the bow. "Then you might be able to afford one of my gowns."

There had been a time when Jeanne could have afforded half a dozen of the gowns. But no longer. Perhaps Yves was on to something. "You cant honestly believe that anyonelet alone a renowned collectorwould actually pay for my work."

"You are quite gifted, Jeanne, and you know it. Your problem is that you have been raised to believe trading on that gift would be crass. But I ask you, what would a man with your talent do?"

He would charge for the work. So why shouldnt a woman do the same?

As soon as Yves and Jeanne arrived at the theater, she knew that the gown was perfectheavy blue satin that Yves had expertly draped into tiny little pleats on the bodice with large flat bows at each shoulder. The skirt was lifted in a swag to one side and held there with a third bow. White kid opera gloves covered her elbows to her fingertips and the shoes were matching silk offset with shimmering beads that caught the light with every step. She felt like a princess and was well aware that heads turned as she followed the usher to the dukes private box.

It was impossible not to notice the way Lord GrotonHamess eyes widened at the sight of her. It was a look Jeanne knew well. The one lesson she had learned was that men as wealthy and powerful as the duke had a bad habit of assuming that such wealth came with certain privileges. At some point she would have to make it clear that she was in Paris for two reasonsto paint and to escape the cloying life she would have to endure if she had remained with her parents. She was not interested in romance. On the other hand, it was a festive occasion and a bit of innocent flirtation was surely within reason when the man had been so generous.

Jeanne extended her gloved fingertips. "Your grace," she murmured, lowering her lashes. From his position behind the duke, Jeanne saw Yves roll his eyes.